


Mallorca

by Aramley



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-29
Updated: 2009-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-17 19:54:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aramley/pseuds/Aramley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger, Rafa, and one night in Mallorca.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mallorca

**Author's Note:**

> Set (and originally written and posted) in 2008, when Roger was attending a friend's wedding in Mallorca.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://aramleys-words.livejournal.com/1343.html).

"I'm in Mallorca," Roger says, cradling the cellphone tight against his ear to block out the busy airport sounds all around him, giving himself some small measure of privacy.

"I know," Rafa says, his voice strange and unfamiliar through the staticky medium of the phone. "For wedding, no?"

"Yes, that's right," Roger says. He's insane; he must be, risking this call. "I recommended it, after the last time here, with - " _with you and me_ , he means, but doesn't say.

"I know. I read it somewhere, that you say Mallorca is very beautiful." There's something strangely intimate about Rafa's voice so close to his ear, despite the physical distance between them. Roger closes his eyes. He really must be going mad.

"Roger," Rafa says, after a moment. "Why are you calling?"

Roger opens his eyes. Why _is_ he calling? He feels bare and exposed, tucked here into a quiet corner of Palma airport, while Mirka collects their luggage and organises everything, businesslike and capable and lovely. Why is he risking this? "Because I had to," he says at last, and his own voice sounds brittle and breathless, like he's helpless with the truth of what he's just confessed. "Because I have to see you."

"Roger," Rafa breathes, "this is insane."

It's not what Roger wanted to hear, but what else could Rafa say? It _is_ insane, it's mad to be calling, and it's mad to be feeling this sharp hot pull in his stomach at the sound of Rafa's voice, and all those other times - stolen locker-room kisses and snatched hours of intimacy in each others' hotel rooms - they were mad, too. This whole thing - whatever it is - is insane from start to finish.

"I have to see you," he says. It's all he can say. On the other end of the line, Rafa groans, and the ragged sound sends a kick of heat flaring through Roger's midsection. This is _insane_ , he thinks, curling his free hand into a fist and trying desperately not to get hard.

"I want to see you too," Rafa says. "I want - Roger, you don't know how much. But is impossible, no?"

"I don't know," Roger says. "This whole thing is impossible."

"Tomorrow I go to Barcelona for training, tomorrow you have wedding. Is impossible."

"What about tonight?" Roger says. He sounds desperate, he knows, and he should feel ashamed, but somehow he doesn't. "How far away are you? We could - I don't know - go for dinner."

"What about Mirka?" Rafa says carefully, and that's the real question here, isn't it? _What about Mirka?_ How many lies is Roger willing to tell, how many infidelities is he willing to commit? Sometimes it's frighteningly easy to forget about Mirka, when he has Rafa's body under his hands, when Rafa is real and vital against him, and Mirka somewhere else, out of sight and out of mind. But what about here? If he turned around now, he could probably pick her out of the crowds. Is he willing to do this with her so close - and if he is, what does that say about him? He takes a deep breath.

"I'll think of something," he says, swallowing past a hard knot of shame rising in his throat. "Please, Rafa," he says, an unpleasant, pleading edge to his voice that gives him a sick, desperate feeling. He doesn't know when this happened to him, when he started needing Rafa like this.

Rafa makes a small helpless noise. "Okay," he says. "Okay, I will try. I will come tonight. For you, I will come."

A wave of relief and guilt and lust and shame washes over Roger, leaving him weak. "Okay," he says, and he gives Rafa the name of his hotel, and then Rafa says, "I can't wait to see you," in such a low, ragged tone that Roger has to close his eyes against the sudden blazing rush of lust. He can't believe he's doing this.

"See you later, Rafa," he says, and then he hangs up, puts his phone in his jacket pocket. He has to take a moment and a couple of deep breaths before he turns around to look for Mirka.

-

"Oh, hey," Roger says later, when they're in the hotel room and unpacking their things - Mirka carefully hanging up their clothes for the wedding tomorrow, laying out Roger's morning suit delicately so that it won't crease. "I got a call earlier from Rafa Nadal. He wants to go out to dinner tonight."

"Isn't he busy with training?" Mirka says, but she sounds distracted. She's focused on her task, not looking at him, and that gives him courage to go on.

"No, not until tomorrow I think. Anyway, I said I would go. He's a good kid," he says, keeping his tone carefully light, trying to give the impression of a casual acquaintance and polite, sportsmanlike approval.

"Yes, he's a nice guy," Mirka says. "Well, just don't be too late, I suppose. Big day tomorrow."

And somehow, horribly, it's as easy as that.

-

Rafa texts him to say that he's on his way and that he'll be about an hour, and so at around eight o'clock Roger kisses Mirka goodbye and tells her to have a good time with their friends at dinner, and then he makes his way down to the hotel lobby and stands around waiting for Rafa and wondering if he's making a huge mistake. Despite the cool air-conditioning, he feels restless and sweaty, like he could crawl out of his own skin. He can feel the damp hair tickling at the back of his neck, and a patch of drying sweat itching where his shirt is sticking to his back underneath his jacket. He wonders if he has time to go back to the room and change, and if he did go back, whether he'd have the courage to come back down. To distract himself, he picks up some leaflets from the rack by the concierge's desk and flicks through them impatiently, adverts for museums and churches and local theme parks, but he's not really paying attention and so he replaces them, and when he looks up, Rafa is there, pushing through the revolving doors. He glances left and right, searching, and then he catches sight of Roger and his face _lights up_. He looks at Roger with such bare, undisguised affection that Roger feels stripped down to the core, exposed in front of everyone in the hotel lobby, even though nobody is paying attention.

When Rafa comes close, there's a moment where Roger is terrified that he's not going to be able to control himself. Rafa reaches out and grasps Roger's outstretched hand in his, and his skin is hot and shockingly real against Roger's, but it's a poor imitation of a polite handshake, and so they hug - just a brief press of bodies, the faintest pressure of Rafa's arm reaching over Roger's shoulder and touching lightly against his back, and then Roger knows that Rafa is controlling hmself every bit as tightly as is Roger. That moment, the sudden recognition of Rafa's steely self-control, it's almost too much for Roger. In the quick closeness of their bodies he can smell Rafa's hair and Rafa's body, and it's - God - it's all he can do not to clutch desperately at Rafa, hold him too close to disguise as anything friendly. He wants to bury his face in the place where Rafa's neck meets his shoulder, press stupid clumsy kisses against the bare skin of Rafa's exposed throat. But he doesn't; he holds Rafa for just long enough, and then lets go. Rafa's eyes are so dark when they meet his, his breath coming just a little too quick and shallow.

"Hello, Roger," he says, and he looks so young in his nice blue shirt and jeans, grinning fit to burst and tucking his hair self-consciously behind his ears. "You are ready?"

"Yes," Roger says. "Yes, I'm ready, let's go."

-

Rafa leads him outside to the car - a shiny, sensible silver Kia, obviously barely used. Rafa could be driving a Mercedes, a Ferrari, or any number of other fancy supercars, but he doesn't: he drives a Kia, and somehow it's perfect. He makes a movement to open Roger's passenger side door for him, and then seems to catch himself and moves round to the driver's side. Roger has to wonder who he's used to driving around in this thing, but he doesn't mention it and neither does Rafa, and so they simply slide into the car, almost in unison. Inside, the car is cool and efficient, bare of the plush leather seats or fancy wood trim that Roger is used to in the cars he favours. The very normality of it seems strange. Roger puts his hands palm down on his thighs, looking at the neat nails against the smooth pressed material. Suddenly he's not sure exactly how he got here, or what he's doing. He feels like he should say something, but the words won't come.

Rafa doesn't say anything either, just puts the car in gear and eases it out onto the street. He drives carefully, like he's reminding himself of what to do, his hands at ten-and-two, his turns pin sharp, his gear changes smooth and precise. It's only when they pass out of Palma onto emptier, broader roads that he relaxes, letting one hand fall from the steering wheel onto his thigh. The sun is setting spectacularly, and when he dares to glance at Rafa out of the corner of his eye he sees that Rafa is haloed in gold and rose.

"I'm sorry you came all this way," Roger says, breaking the silence. He feels silly, childish.

"Roger," Rafa says, keeping his eyes steady on the road. "I would have driven all night just to see you."

It should sound corny and cliched, but somehow it doesn't: it sounds serious and sweet and true. Roger reaches out without thinking and takes hold of Rafa's free hand, twining their fingers together, and that should feel weird too but it doesn't, and so they just drive like that for a long while, in silence.

-

When they pull up outside the restaurant it's almost completely dark, the sun just dipping down below the horizon into the sea, but Roger still recognises the low-slung building with its open frontage facing the ocean, laced with bougainvillea vines heavy with red blossoms.

"Las Dores, right?" he says, turning to Rafa with a smile that Rafa echoes broadly.

"Yes, we come here after the match last year," he says, adding, "Which I won."

Roger laughs and takes a mock-swipe at Rafa. "You brat," he says, his voice tight with affection. Rafa grins even more broadly and grabs Roger's wrist, swiping his thumb over the pulse-point. Roger wonders if Rafa can feel the way that makes his pulse race; maybe he can, because he brings Roger's hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to Roger's knuckles, and Roger has to remind himself that they're parked on a public road because it's the only way he can stop himself from reaching for Rafa.

Rafa lets go of Roger's wrist with a smile. "We should go inside," he says. "Not much time for dinner."

"Right, dinner," Roger breathes, and Rafa laughs softly.

-

The restaurant manager greets them warmly, clapping Roger on the shoulder and smiling like they're dear old friends, reunited after a long separation. He alternates between rapid-fire Spanish to Rafa, whatever he's saying making Rafa grin broadly and laugh, and warm broken English to Roger.

"You have best table!" he exclaims, leading them through the busy restaurant to a quieter area at the back, which Roger is grateful for, feeling the stares of the other diners as they pass by. Their table is relatively secluded, lit by soft candlelight that flickers in a warm, fragrant breeze coming through the open window. The manager fusses around in a charming, paternal manner, pulling out their seats for them and calling for menus and wine lists which a waitress brings, smiling shyly at Rafa and Roger.

"I remember what you like," the manager says, beaming at Roger. "Sweet mussels, yes? They are very good now!"

"Seafood is always good in Mallorca, no?" Rafa says, catching Roger's eye and sharing a smile between them.

"Yes, always," the manager agrees, and Roger laughs.

"Okay, okay, I'm convinced," he says, holding up his hands in mock defeat. "I'll have the mussels again."

Rafa orders sea bass, and Roger decides on the indulgence of a glass of white wine with his meal (Rafa sensibly sticks with water) and then they're alone, smiling foolishly at each other over the table like a pair of teenagers out on a first date. Roger wants to reach over and put his hand over Rafa's where it rests on the pristine tablecloth, but he settles instead for the safer option of brushing his foot against Rafa's leg under the table, making Rafa duck his head and blush, looking impossibly young.

Conversation starts out a little slow - "My English," Rafa complains, wrinkling his nose in irritation at his own difficulties, and Roger interrupts, "Is a million times better than my Spanish" - but there's also the issue of their recent professional encounters. They skirt Beijing carefully, and ignore Wimbledon and Roland Garros altogether, though the shadows of those matches cloud that particular conversational avenue; but they find easier ground discussing other players - Novak and Andy Murray and del Potro.

The food comes quickly, and it's so, so good. Roger has to stifle a little moan of pleasure at the sweet-salt taste of the mussels in their wine sauce, just as delicious as he'd remembered. While they eat, Rafa tells him about the last time he'd been fishing, his voice becoming animated with the pleasure of the memory as he tells Roger about the fish he'd caught that day, about how much he loves being on the boat with his family and friends, how much he loves the sea and the sun and Mallorca. Roger watches him, thinking about how he can't remember the last time he felt such simple, uncomplicated happiness. Rafa's eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles; one day he'll have wrinkles there, and Roger thinks suddenly how much he wants to be there when he does.

For a moment, Roger allows himself to imagine that life - their life, here, together. He lets himself imagine becoming a part of that big close family that Rafa loves so much - he'd learn Spanish, he thinks, so that he could tell them about Rafa's kindness, his humilty, how much Roger loves their boy. He'd take up fishing, maybe buy a boat. They'd have a house by the beach, and he and Rafa would play football on the sand, and he'd hold Rafa's hand when they walked by the sea at sunset. All of these things. None of these things.

"Roger?" Rafa says, and Roger snaps out of his daydream to find Rafa watching him with concern in his dark eyes. "Is everything okay?"

Roger realises then that he's been staring at Rafa, probably looking like a lovesick puppy. He leans back in his seat, laughing softly to cover the embarrassing fact of a tightness in his throat. "Everything's fine," he says. "Everything's perfect." Rafa is woeful at concealing his feelings, and he's looking at Roger like he's sort of worried about his sanity. Which is probably, Roger reflects, a fair concern.

They finish their meal slowly. Rafa talks some more about Mallorca, and then he wants to know about Switzerland, and so Roger sketches a brief snapshot of mountains and snow and crisp winters, which he supposes must sound exotic to someone like Rafa, so wholly a creature of sun and summer. When their plates are empty, the shy, pretty waitress clears their table and then returns with a dish of chocolate ice cream and a pair of spoons - "From the manager," Rafa translates - and even though they're both feeling full, they relish the opportunity to draw the meal out just a little longer. More than the dessert itself, Roger enjoys watching Rafa's mouth around the spoon, watching his tongue chase the last taste of chocolate from the corners of his mouth. The sight makes his own mouth go dry, and his heart speeds up when Rafa glances up and catches him staring, and Rafa's eyes go dark and hot.

Eventually, regretfully, Rafa checks his watch. "Is getting late," he says slowly.

"What time is your flight tomorrow?"

"Early," Rafa admits, grimacing.

"Rafa, I'm sorry, this was selfish," Roger says, suddenly guilty.

"No, no." Rafa waves away Roger's apologies. "I wanted this. You and me here, in Mallorca. Is like a dream."

Roger smiles softly. "I wish we had more time," he says.

"I wish that, always," Rafa says, returning Roger's smile. He shrugs. "But is life, no? We have this time, at least."

The process of leaving takes more time: they argue briefly over who gets to pay the bill, an argument that Roger wins by thoroughly ignoring Rafa's protests and counting out the cash from his wallet, handing it directly to the manager, who laughs fondly at the pair of them; and then there are the protracted _thank yous_ and _goodbyes_ and promises to visit again, and then from somewhere a camera is produced and they have their picture taken - as a pair, and with the manager between them, his arms slung over their shoulders, and then with the waitress who served them; and then some of the other diners approach timidly to ask for autographs, so they spend a couple of minutes scrawling their names onto napkins and hastily produced notepads before the manager announces in polite but firm Spanish that _los campeones_ have to be on their way, and then there are final goodbyes at the door before they break away out into the night, laughing together as they head towards the car.

"That was a wonderful dinner," Roger says.

"Again sometime, perhaps," Rafa says. The street is quiet, and Roger feels Rafa's fingers tug at the sleeve of his jacket, near the cuff, fingers brushing his wrist - a shy, tentative gesture of intimacy. Impulsively, Roger throws his arm around Rafa's shoulder, pulling Rafa close enough to press a kiss to his temple. He feels Rafa's arm come tightly around his waist for a brief moment before they break apart. Roger hopes that the embrace looked casual enough to be taken for close friendship rather than what it was, but he reflects again that he really must be going insane, because in the brief moment when his lips had pressed against Rafa's skin, he really hadn't cared.

-

In the car, they lapse again into companionable silence, content with each other's company. The world outside is narrowed down to a long stretch of illuminated tarmac before and behind. Roger drowses gently in the passenger seat, worn out by travel, warmed by good food and good wine and lulled by the motion of the car, and even though he doesn't think he sleeps, it's still a shock when he opens his eyes and finds that they've left the motorway entirely. Everything is black except for a short strip of dirt track running ahead of them like a conveyer belt. Beyond the brush of the headlights, Roger can't pick out a single feature.

"Are we lost?" he asks.

"No," Rafa says. The car bumps along a little bit further, lurching over rocks and potholes before Rafa brings it to a stop, switching off the engine so that the lights go off, and for a second they're enveloped in perfect darkness before their eyes adjust just slightly to the fainter, softer light of the moon. Roger looks at Rafa, the strong lines of his face outlined and highlighted by the strange light. He looks both achingly familiar and shockingly unfamiliar, and Roger suddenly wants him so, so badly.

Rafa's eyes are shadowed and unreadable in the dimness. "Is this okay?" he asks, reaching out and putting his hand on Roger's thigh ever so lightly. Roger can't even answer; he can only groan - a sound that's embarrassingly loud in the silence - and reach for Rafa, twisting his hands in the front of Rafa's shirt to pull him close for a kiss. Rafa's mouth opens against his, and Roger loses himself in all that heat, all that welcome oblivion.

The separation of driver and passenger seat is too much - Roger tries to pull Rafa closer and closer until Rafa is twisted awkwardly, half on Roger's lap and half wedged down in the space where the gearstick is, laughing against Roger's jaw at the ridiculousness of the position while Roger shoves his hands up Rafa's shirt, pressing his palms against warm skin, needing more and more and _more_ contact, _now_.

"Come on," Rafa pants, pulling away. He twists weirdly out of Roger's grip, and Roger gropes after him half blind with need before he realises that Rafa is squeezing between the front seats into the empty space of the back seat. Roger follows him eagerly - a little too eagerly - and they wrestle into a position that kind of works, bumping elbows and knees and huffing warm laughter against each other's cheeks in the cramped space before they end up semi-horizontal, with Roger half on top of Rafa and Rafa sort of wedged against the back seat. For a moment Roger holds himself suspended over Rafa, and there's just a second where he thinks, this is too ridiculous, this is _insane_. And then Rafa puts his hand on the bare small of Roger's back, underneath his untucked shirt, and grinds his hips _up_ , and that's it, he's undone.

After that it's all frantic, Rafa skimming the shirt up and over Roger's head, too impatient for buttons, and they undress each other as far as the ridiculously small space allows, just enough so that they can press bare skin together. Rafa moans loudly, and Roger would shush him if he still had the presence of mind to do anything except move, the friction between them too hot and too good to stop. Rafa's hands are everywhere, Rafa's mouth is hot and wet against his throat and chest. Roger tangles his hands in Rafa's sweaty hair and presses blind kisses to every bit of skin he can reach, still moving his hips frantically while beneath him Rafa twists and grinds lewdly against him and pushes his own hips upwards. The building heat between them is almost unbearable, and then Rafa insinuates one clever, calloused hand between their bodies and grasps them both together, jerking once, twice, three times and that's all it takes. Supernovas explode behind Roger's eyes and low down in his belly, and he hears himself cry out sharply, overcome by pleasure. He can feel Rafa's strong hands clutching at his hips and the hot splash of Rafa's orgasm across his belly, hear Rafa's stifled shout. He presses his face against Rafa's skin and loses himself there.

-

Afterwards they collapse into a crumple of sweaty limbs and clothes. With the edge taken off their desire, they kiss slowly, exchange lingering touches. Rafa's fingers card lightly through Roger's hair, tugging at the damp curls, and Roger presses his face against Rafa's neck, breathing deeply the smell of sweat and sex and summer that lingers on Rafa's skin.

"So," Rafa says after a while, his voice deep and accent thick. "I hear you kiss Stanislas Wawrinka in Beijing?"

Roger pulls back sharply. "Rafa, it wasn't -" he begins, but Rafa waves a hand dismissively.

"Is okay, is nothing," Rafa says, smiling softly. "You kiss Mirka, you kiss Wawrinka. I get this," he says, kissing Roger's bare shoulder. "This just ours, yes?"

A place behind Roger's ribs aches. "Just ours," he echoes, reaching out to tangle his fingers in Rafa's hair, and Rafa pushes up against his fingertips, seeking Roger's touch, such a bare and unguarded gesture that Roger has to kiss him again.

-

The clock on the dashboard warns them that it's getting really kind of ridiculously late, and so they break apart with reluctance. Rafa finds some tissues in the Kia's glove compartment and they clean up the mess they've made of each other and of the car's backseat, and Rafa laughingly wonders how he's going to explain that to his team when they drive to the airport tomorrow, making Roger blush. Clothes are tugged back on awkwardly in the cramped space, which seems so ridiculously small now for two men both over six foot that he can't even imagine how they'd accomplished what they just had. Roger's jacket and trousers are hopelessly creased, and his shirt is missing a button. He tries not to think about how he'll explain that to Mirka. With the crazy euphoria of desire damped down now, he wonders how he's even going to look at Mirka, knowing that he's just had sex with Rafael Nadal in the back seat of a Kia on a dirt track somewhere in Mallorca.

This time, they get out of the car to transfer themselves into the front seats. Rafa looks so blissed-out that Roger watches him nervously as he starts up the car.

"Are you okay to drive?" he asks.

"I'm fine," Rafa says. "I'll get you back safe."

The drive back to Palma doesn't take long, and Roger doesn't know whether he's grateful for that or not. A heaviness settles in his stomach as they reach places he recognises, and he feels just a little sick as they turn a corner and he catches sight of the hotel. Rafa eases the car into a parking space at the dark far end of the street, out of sight of the entrance.

"Roger," he breathes, turning, and they reach for each other, leaning over the space between the seats and kissing clumsily. Rafa frames Roger's face with his hands when they break apart, holding him there for a second, eyes tracing over every inch of his face like he's trying to fix Roger in his memory. Roger knows the feeling. After a moment Rafa smiles and releases him.

"Thank you for tonight," he says, easing back into the driver's seat. "I hope the wedding is good tomorrow."

"Thank you, Rafa," Roger says. His voice sounds thick and rough. He has to steel himself to unbuckle his seatbelt and open the car door, and then stepping out onto the pavement feels like an incredible effort. "Good luck with practice. Drive safe. Text me when you get home," he says, and Rafa thanks him and says that he will, and then Roger steps back and slams the door and that's that. Rafa gives him a little wave as he starts the car, and then he's pulling away from the curb, and Roger sticks his hands deep in his trouser pockets and walks back to the hotel. By the time he gets to the entrance and is greeted by the porter, the silver Kia has disappeared around the corner.

-

"You're very late," Mirka admonishes when Roger gets into the room at last, after a brief stop in the lobby toilet to fix his clothes a little better and to splash some cool water onto his burning cheeks, to steel himself to face her.

"I'm sorry," he says. He goes about the business of undressing for bed mechanically, without looking at her. "We got talking, you know, about tennis and things. He's a good kid."

"Well, I'm glad you had a good time," Mirka says. She looks tired and beautiful, and Roger feels so guilty that he wants to blurt out I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, and to tell her everything. Instead he tells her that he's going to take a shower before bed, and escapes to the bathroom to wash away the traces of Rafa that linger on his skin. She's asleep when he comes back into the bedroom, and he settles next to her in the bed. It shouldn't be possible to love two people at the same time, he thinks. It isn't fair. He lies there for a long time, sleepless, until his phone chirps on the nightstand. One new message, from Rafa:

_home safe. goodnight xxxx_

And Roger has to smile to himself, despite everything. He texts back _i'm glad, goodnight xxxx_ and replaces the phone on the nightstand, and then he closes his eyes, and sleeps.


End file.
